Pilgrim's War Read online

  Fulk led the way, all the while revelling in the close company of Guillemette.

  She stopped him when they reached a small clearing, a hand on his arm. ‘What will you want for this food? We have no money.’

  ‘Lady, I had no . . .’

  She nodded. ‘Yes, you did. Well, you can have me if you want, if it’ll bring in a little food for us.’

  ‘Your honest simplicity is refreshing,’ he said.

  ‘I’m not so proud that I’ll starve for no reason,’ she said.

  He moved toward her, his hands reaching for her hips, but she slipped away. ‘Oh, no!’ she said, and while there was a chuckle in her voice, there was no mistaking her seriousness. ‘Food first – then you can have me, if you want.’

  Vöcklabruck, Thursday 22nd May

  Even now, some eight weeks after the arrival of Peter the Hermit in their city, Sybille was angry. It was a constant rasp on her soul, to think that they had given up everything to join this great cavalcade, and every new day picked at the scabs of the wound. She could barely open her mouth without snapping at Benet. He was entirely to blame for their being here. She had no idea how long the journey would take, but she was worried for Richalda. Their daughter was so young for such hardships.

  ‘Do not fear, lady. I will protect you,’ Josse had said to her as they set off. Sybille had been in a towering rage that day, seeing her house sold off, all their prized possessions, few as they were, auctioned to their neighbours so that they could leave with as big a purse as they could. She wanted to snap at someone, and Josse took the brunt of her anger that day, but he only smiled and reassured her, as though he understood her better than her own dear Benet. Perhaps he did.

  Some pilgrims were moving south, aiming for Rome and the coast where they would take ships to cross the seas to Constantinople. Others were gathering, apparently, in order to walk the majority of the way. The Hermit had his own group, and Sir Walter de Boissy-Sans-Avoir another. Benet had chosen to trudge along with the earliest he could, so as to reach Jerusalem with the first pilgrims, and for now that meant that they were with the army of Sir Walter.

  They had passed into the plains between the mountains, and now were travelling through lands in which, to Sybille’s ear, the guttural tongue clogged the back of the throat. It was a strange, horrible language, she thought, with harsh clicks and glottal noises so thick-sounding, sometimes she felt the people must choke. A villager had agreed to sell this pony, though, and although Benet had baulked at the price, Sybille had been determined. She was not going to walk any further. Already she had worn out the soles of two pairs of her shoes, and although they had found a cordwainer who could repair them, her feet felt every mile. Besides, it was better for Richalda to be able to rest more often.

  ‘Is it much farther?’ Richalda asked now.

  She was seated before her mother on the pony, and Sybille smiled down at her. ‘It is many, many leagues, little bird. We have a great many lands to see before we reach the land of our Lord Jesus.’

  ‘Trust in Him,’ Benet said. He trudged along at Sybille’s right knee. She noticed that he was limping a little, favouring his left leg. She must stop soon and give him an opportunity to ride and rest, she thought, even if he deserved pain for bringing them here. But it would do her good to use her legs, and Richalda would benefit from a run around, too.

  ‘It will take us another month or more,’ a man beside them said on her left.

  Sybille nodded, but as she looked over at him, she found herself torn.

  He was a grizzled old peasant, who bore a long pole over his shoulder and a bill at his belt. A stranger, he yet looked friendly enough. His eyes were calm and blue, but wrinkled as a piece of ancient leather, and he wore a cap with a tassel dangling from a cord. At home, she would have ignored a man such as this, and continued riding without response, but here, with strange lands about them and an indefinite destination, it was a relief to talk to anyone. All pilgrims were friends.

  ‘You know the way?’ Benet asked over the body of Richalda’s pony. He saw Josse glower suspiciously, edging closer. Benet held up his hand. Josse would not trust the Pope himself with Sybille and Richalda, and Benet knew it was best always to keep his servant under observation in case of accidents, just as it was best to keep a hound on a tight leash to stop it biting people.

  ‘I have been along this way before, aye. It is a weary journey,’ the man said. He did not look up at Benet or her, but kept his eyes on the horizon, as though the act of staring could reduce the distance.

  ‘How far did you go?’ Sybille asked.

  ‘As far as the great city of Antioch, mistress. But never with so many others.’

  She looked about them. Everywhere were people. They streamed off before them and trailed behind, an unimaginable number. They ranged on either side, even here where the road was not broad. Carters and sumptermen travelling in the opposite direction had a hard way of it, there was such a press. Thousands, tens of thousands, all driven by the same religious desire to bring the Holy City back into the hands of the Christians who deserved it. It was their city, after all.

  ‘Were there not so many when you came this way before?’

  He glanced up at her and gave a little grin. ‘Nay, mistress. I was all but alone. I had my father and a priest, and that was all. I never thought to see such a multitude as this! And they say this is but one of the armies.’

  ‘There are more?’ Sybille said. If there were more, the whole of Christendom must be emptied, she thought. ‘Some have said that this could be the end of all things,’ she said more quietly. She glanced at Richalda.

  ‘End of the world? No, it’s the beginning of a happier time,’ he said, and patted the bill at his belt. ‘We will take back the city, and then will be a time of plenty and happiness for all, you’ll see!’

  Sybille was glad to hear the certainty in his voice. Many were apocalyptic in their descriptions about what would happen when they reached the Holy Land and it was refreshing to hear his stolid conviction.

  ‘So long as your servant doesn’t try to kill me first, of course,’ he added.

  Sybille glanced back. ‘He is safe, Josse. You don’t have to worry about anyone here in our company!’

  Josse nodded and fell back a half-pace, but then turned to peer over his shoulder at the sound of shouts and cries. Sybille felt a quick trepidation in case it might be an attack from ruffians. There were many stories of outlaws who did unspeakable things to their captives in these strange lands, but even as the fear rose in her breast, she saw that it was only a group of soldiers who were trotting along briskly, pushing other pilgrims from their path.

  She saw the heavy figure of a knight in the midst of his company, but did not recognise Sir Walter de Boissy-Sans-Avoir any more than she would have known the King of France.

  Near Vöcklabruck

  Odo strode on amid the throng with a determination that was, to Fulk, frankly appalling.

  ‘Do you not feel tired, brother?’ Fulk called. Then, ‘Would you like a rest?’

  Odo continued stomping on.

  ‘Odo! We have been marching for days! Do you not wish to rest a while?’ Then, when his brother paid him no heed, ‘Odo, in the name of all the saints, please!’

  ‘You should hurry, Fulk,’ his brother called over his shoulder. ‘We shall not get there any the sooner by strolling like a maid with her lover at the riverside in harvest time. We are here for an urgent cause.’

  ‘Can’t you stop being so . . . so relentless?’ Fulk said despairingly.

  Fulk knew that his great failing was his impetuosity and occasional anger, but at least that was better than Odo’s sulking. He had always nursed a grievance in bitter silence. He was sorely tempted to beat it out of him sometimes, but not today.

  To his relief, Odo stopped and turned to look at him. Fulk pulled the stopper from his flask and drank a little water. It tasted of the pitch used to seal the leather. His head hurt, and his feet were complainin
g: they had blisters on blisters. The weight of the sword on his back was an annoyance; the cord that he had used to bind it over his shoulder had rubbed the flesh raw from his collarbone to his neck, and all in all he felt about done in.

  ‘What’s the matter with you, Fulk?’

  ‘I am weary,’ he said, barely holding back a curse as two more pilgrims barged past him. ‘We have been marching for weeks now, and I’m weary. Aren’t you?’

  ‘I did not stay up so late last evening with the young woman from wherever she hails from,’ Odo said shortly.

  ‘That’s it? You are jealous that I—’

  ‘I am jealous of nothing! But this whole iter, this journey of pilgrimage, is based on a religious ambition. Can you not understand that, Fulk?’

  ‘What of it? We will be granted absolution for our sins for making this journey.’

  ‘But if you fornicate and wallow in drunkenness, you will imperil it!’ Odo snapped.

  After sharing their food, Fulk and Guillemette had found a man who carried a wineskin. His wine had refreshed them both, and then Guillemette had accommodated him while standing with her back to a large oak. Now Fulk gazed at his brother in genuine surprise. ‘Is that what you think? I had thought that no matter what we did on this journey, we would be granted—’

  ‘Then you need to think again! How would God react if the men who reach His Holy City were the dregs of all the thieves, cut-purses, wantons and malcontents of Christendom? He wants those with higher ideals, those who deserve His peace and salvation!’

  ‘What was the point of the priest telling us we’d be given absolution, then? He must have assumed that there would be some like me?’

  ‘Perhaps he thought you could keep your tarse in your braies for the course of a journey,’ Odo said tartly.

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘You think I haven’t noticed you slipping away at night to meet your little wench?’

  Fulk shrugged shamefacedly. ’It’s not been that often.’

  ‘Every time you lie with a woman, you imperil the pilgrimage!’

  ‘Consider me aware that I’ve been reprimanded,’ Fulk said. He had taken to visiting Guillemette as often as he might. ‘I am sorry, Odo. I didn’t think of it in that light. I was looking on this as a great adventure, perhaps the only one I shall have in my life.’

  ‘It is – but it is a holy adventure, not some glorified market-day festivity! Come, you need to keep up. We have many more miles to cover before evening.’

  ‘Then go more slowly! How far is it to the next town?’

  ‘From the look of you, an evening in the open air would be better for you,’ Odo said without sympathy, but he pulled a face. ‘About another four or five leagues, I think. I asked a fellow a little while ago, and think that was when the sun was a full hour lower in the sky. He said six leagues. We should have covered two leagues since then.’

  Fulk nodded. ‘And then only another ten thousand leagues to Jerusalem.’

  ‘Not that far,’ Odo said, setting off once more. ‘Only, perhaps, nine thousand leagues.’

  ‘You cheer me greatly.’

  ‘Good.’

  Fulk could see little that was good about things. However, as they walked, soon they came to a small brook, at which they refilled their skins and flasks, and shortly after that they reached a hamlet, in which a farmer’s wife took pity on them and gave them a hunk of day-old bread each. It was enough to give them the energy to continue a little further, and Fulk found he could ignore his blisters and his shoulder after a while. The pain did not dissipate, but he was more aware of the resolution of plodding on, lifting one foot and setting it down again. The constant, unremitting nature of their journey was enough to dull all his senses.

  Odo appeared to feel none of his pain. His brother, instead, concentrated solely on arriving at Jerusalem in the shortest time possible. He wanted only to reach the city before the place could fall to the Christians. Whenever he could, he had tried to set a faster pace, and Fulk had to force him to slow down like an anchor. ‘If we get there too late, what then?’ he muttered every so often.

  It was a relief when they saw a knot of people ahead. There was a clutch of people walking, and a man on a pony who rode a little over the rest.

  ‘I think I know that face,’ Fulk said, but he wasn’t looking at the man on the horse. It was the woman walking at his side whom Fulk had noticed, the woman from the marketplace at Sens when they had all heard the preacher.

  Odo glared at him. ‘You’re not already thinking of another slut?’

  ‘No!’ Fulk said, but he could not help throwing another quick glance at the woman. She was worth a second look, he thought.

  Sybille had given up her seat on the pony to her husband and was walking happily enough on the grassy verge. It was soft and easy underfoot here, and she had pulled off her shoes to let her feet enjoy the cool, long grasses, but there were too many men about her here. She had to pull her skirts decorously down. Many men would become inflamed at the sight of a woman’s ankles, she knew. She was aware that several were eyeing her covertly. It was better to be down here, off the beast, for while in the saddle she was subject to glances from all directions. Here at least she felt protected from most of them.

  A man near her was bemoaning the confusion of finances. ‘I had to change much of my money for these shitty little things. Obols, they call them. Apparently there are two to a pfennig, in this benighted land, but they aren’t the same as the obols at home. What is the point of all these silly coins, when they could use the same as we do? I wouldn’t trust these foreign coins as far as I could throw them, if it weren’t for the fact we need them here.’

  ‘They’ll be different in the next town, too,’ his friend told him.

  ‘Rome has its own currency, and Venice another, so I’ve heard,’ a third voice piped. ‘We just have to hope we all have enough to last us to get to Constantinople. There we’ll have help.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Of course,’ the first said. ‘It was their Emperor who asked the Pope to send men to help him put down these heretics in his Empire. He must want to help us, when we reach him.’

  The third sounded wary about this. ‘So long as you’re sure. I’ve known people ask for help, and be grateful, until the time for reckoning comes along, and then they suddenly remember other commitments and try to weasel their way out.’

  ‘The Emperor of Constantinople would hardly do that.’

  ‘You think so?’

  Sybille listened with only half an ear. Further away someone was singing a sweet little song about a lady who fell in love with a knight who left her in search of adventure. It left Sybille feeling melancholy, and a little sad to have snapped at Benet earlier. She was a poor wife, she thought. He had made a hard choice for them to leave their home, but no doubt it would all turn out for the best. She had to believe that. He was her husband.

  Theirs had been a marriage of love. She had met him when she was still only a maid, and he was an apprentice, but their love had grown swiftly, and she had never regretted her choice. He was kind, and a good man; he always helped those who needed alms, for example. If he had a weakness, it lay in his attempts to provide for his family. He had tried to expand his business, but that had failed, and almost cost them their house. Soon afterwards he thought to have secured a patron, but that man proved notoriously bad at paying his debts, and poor Benet had lost more money. All their lives together had been a struggle seeking money when the latest venture failed. He had grown old before his time.

  This would be different. He was convinced that at last they would find their fortune and be able to make money. She just hoped and prayed that he was right. With God’s help, if He thought they were serving His purpose, He might bestow some good fortune on them.

  There were more people overtaking them now, and she cast a glance around. One, she saw, was a good-looking fellow. She liked the way that he strode, the way that his eyes were on her as he
passed them, the way that his lips moved in a slow grin, before he continued on his way, but as Fulk walked on past, she averted her gaze, lifting her chin haughtily. She was a married woman, not some wayside wench.

  BOOK THREE

  Lothar

  The German Pilgrim

  CHAPTER 7

  Mainz, Sunday 25th May, 1096

  ‘Who instructed you to hold the gates against us?’

  Lothar heard the ice in his lord’s voice. Count Emicho of Flonheim sat easily on his horse, but Lothar knew that his Count was never more dangerous than when his tone took on that cold, precise note. Staring at the Archbishop’s barred gates was not improving his temper. After all, theirs was a holy task.

  It had taken them only a few days to reach the city of Mainz from Worms. The Count had been inspired there, hearing so many talking about joining the armies marching to Jerusalem. He had a dream: a vision. Many were keen to help even if they did not join the pilgrimage themselves. There were miraculous events spoken of, and pilgrims of all ages and qualities. One girl had claimed that her goose was infected by the Holy Spirit, and had led her to Cologne Cathedral. There, at the altar, she declared that the bird was aware of her ambition to walk to Jerusalem and was determined to join her.

  But for all the thrilling stories of those committed to joining the pilgrimage, others turned their thoughts to the funding. Congregations donated money, thinking that their contributions would give them a heavenly reward, but many considered that the wealthiest should pay their way. Since the richest were Jewish merchants and money-lenders, the Count made it clear he believed they should support the pilgrims; in addition they should accept the Christian faith and baptism. He tried to persuade the Jews of Worms, but they had refused. It showed that they were of bad faith, so the Count ordered his men to slaughter them all.

  Worms was cleansed, but Mainz had its own Jewish population.

  The cathedral rose over the city like a tower reaching to Heaven itself, with its great stone walls. Workers laboured over the final works on tall, spindly larch scaffoldings, while stone-carvers plied their chisels and hammers on statues and gargoyles below before the treadmill cranes hoisted them into position. All the while fresh timbers and stones were brought to be worked and installed inside. And even as the Count’s men waited, this tiny force stood barring their path with their weapons.